Thrills
by Oddly Inspired
Summary: He remembers the couple funerals they'd attended together, sitting awkwardly in the back and hoping no one would notice them cracking lewd jokes. There was no start because there was no them.


Disclaimer: Not mine, obviously.

It's been a long, long while since I've written anything, but this has been absolutely nagging at me. Hopefully someone else out there enjoys it.

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If he was honest with himself, he could readily admit to a "great love". He liked to pretend that he'd never been stooped to James' level, had never been mastered, "whipped". He was a free spirit, after all, and had no use for something like commitment.

It was true that he'd never had a girlfriend, but it had nothing to do with his motorcycle. Not to say he didn't love his bike—she was the most loyal and dependable woman in his life. He'd put a lot of love and time and heart into her, repairing her after finding her in someone's trash, modifying her to his high standards, waxing and polishing and keeping her gleaming and beautiful. He loved the feeling, the thrill, the rush of adrenaline he got when he was flying in the air, going way too fast, too close to the ground, too close to everything, but still so far above, so far away from everything that was going wrong on earth. It was a release, a catharsis, a moment of willing forgetfulness, more natural and more exciting than any drug he'd ever tried.

His lack of serious relationships had equally nothing to do with his sexuality. Contrary to his so-called friends' teasing, he was most certainly _not_ gay.

No, the reason he had always steered clear of relationships was due to a deep-seated belief—or disbelief, rather—in the nature of love. Simply stated, it wasn't something he'd ever subscribed to. Falling in love wasn't for people like him. For people like James, sure, maybe. But for someone like him… He was aware that this stemmed in large part from his raising and from his unusually difficult adolescence. Love simply wasn't something that was to be found in the House of Black.

Walburga and Orion had respected and liked one another well enough, but their marriage had been arranged at Walburga's birth. Theirs was a marriage of cold efficiency and necessity, and their children were viewed as the inevitable result of such a union. He and Regulus were treated as miniature adults and were expected to behave as such. Everything was done with utmost formality and frigid detachment. Meals were always composed of at least four courses, and were always taken in the state dining room, including tea. Misbehavior was never tolerated. When they were very young, they were placed under the Imperius for any and all familial and friendly gatherings, so as to avoid any "childish" behavior.

As he and Regulus grew older, the differences between them became ever more apparent. Sirius was reckless and brave, inherently noble, clever and cunning, effortlessly elegant in his features and manners without any of the effeminate affectations so commonly found among upper class men. Regulus was quiet and pensive, respectful, graceful, and intelligent, with a keen sense of self-preservation that bordered on cowardice.

Until he'd been sorted into Gryffindor, he had been the favorite child.

He'd understood from the moment it happened that his Sorting would result in some loss of favor, but he'd had no idea of the scope of his family's anger. The first sign of his loss of favor came on the third day of first year in the form of an impersonal letter, in his father's secretary's writing on the official family stationary. He'd known that something must be coming, had expected some dissapointment. Andromeda and Narcissa had warned him that there would be some sort of consequence. Bellatrix had done nothing but laugh gleefully at the thought of her ickle baby cousin, the family's golden boy, their "brightest little star", was fallen.

Andy and Cissy were both nurturers by nature. Andy was an empathetic and genuinely caring person, and Cissy was irrepressibly maternal and had always delighted in spoiling her younger cousins. But Bellatrix—he'd never dared used any nicknames for her—had always been fiercely and maniacally devoted to the traditional emotional austerity and cruelty that she felt was appropriate to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

The letter opened with the use of his full name—"Sirius Orion Black," it began. "It has recently come to the attention of the family that you have disregarded and therefore disgraced the tradition of being Sorted into the most worthy House of Slytherin. We need hardly impress upon you the trouble this brings us. As we cannot, unfortunately, have you re-Sorted. Therefore, we are obligated to inform you that you alone will be held responsible for this trespass. Rest assured," it concluded, "that actions will be taken against you." It was signed not by his parents as individuals, but with the Seal of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.

He realized immediately following this that he would have to make his own way. He told no one of the letter, though it was impossible to miss the sympathetic looks that Andromeda and Narcissa gave him when they thought he wasn't looking, or the laughter of Bellatrix every time he passed her in the corridors. By the second week, he had attached himself firmly to James Potter, which he knew would annoy his father to no end. In old pureblood households such as his, it wasn't considered unusual for the Cruciatus to be used as punishment, but it wasn't particularly commonplace, being reserved for only the more grievous offenses. That first summer, he was placed under it often.

Looking back, he supposed that summer cemented Regulus' loyalty to his parents—seeing him be punished in such a way was more than enough affirmation for the weaker-willed boy that he would get nowhere without utmost obedience to the family politics and ideals.

Upon return to Hogwarts, he'd acted out more than he had in the year prior, no longer concerned at all with remaining in his parents' fragile graces. He and James extended their friendship to two other boys in their year, Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew. They all stayed together over the Christmas holidays, and that was when they decided upon a name for their group. It was heavily debated, but his suggestion won; they would henceforth be known as the Marauders.

Now that they had a name, it was agreed that they had to step things up. From the start of second term of second year until their graduation, no place and no person was safe from the humorous wrath of the Marauders. He funneled all his Blacker tendencies and qualities into these relatively harmless exploits. He was creative and clever and cunning, and had the sort of face that everyone wanted to believe, innocent or not, and so he avoided any major punishment, as teachers couldn't or wouldn't pin him for most things. He was a gifted actor and an even better liar. There were advantages to growing up Black.

He soon found that his infamy allowed him great access to the best part of the castle—the girls. He never attempted to make any secret of his distaste for relationships. He made it a point to deliver long dissertations in the Great Hall about his disbelief in love at mealtimes. He had a steadfast rule that he would never snog the same girl on more than two separate occasions. A creature ruled by hormones—he didn't deny it. "A bird is a bird is a bird," he often said.

He did, however, have a favorite.

She was a girl of equal blood stature that, if it weren't for her status as a fellow Gryffindor, even his mother might have offered her tacit approval of. Their affair began a little late, by his standards. It wasn't until fifth year that she caught his eye. She was sworn to secrecy, of course, as he was terrified of other girls finding out about his breach of his otherwise strict two-time rule.

They'd been friends since their original Hogwarts Express journey, when they'd shared a compartment and a pack of Bertie Botts'. She'd joined in enthusiastically in his teasing of James Potter, who he'd known in a vague way since he was six, and whom she had only just met. He'd been filled with respect at her ability to "hang with the boys" and to take as much teasing as she administered. That was why it was a long time before their attentions to one another turned less innocent—he'd always seen her as sort of the fifth Marauder, as one of the boys herself.

He couldn't really remember how the whole thing started—she was fond of saying that it hadn't started at all, it wasn't like that. "Don't be ridiculous." she'd say in her lilting brogue. "We aren't anything. _We aren't Lily and James_, for Merlin's sake. There is no start because there is no us." Publicly, he was inclined to agree. But deep somewhere in that black hole he'd once claimed was a heart, he disagreed. He loved her, he knew, as much as he was capable of love.

Which, to be perfectly fair, wasn't much. He was a broken man; he'd been that way as long as he could remember. He didn't—_couldn't_—accept love or loving others. He'd never known what that was. Sure, he loved James, he loved Lily, he loved Remus and Peter. But that wasn't the same as _love_, and he was well aware of that. It wasn't anything he'd ever considered a shortcoming until he became aware of her. Love was something that got you hurt, that got you in trouble, something that was stupid and useless and was for lesser people, for weaker people.

Why bother with it, anyway? He knew that there were plenty of girls who were perfectly willing to go without his love. He'd made known his aversion to the notion, after all, had always been perfectly clear. It wasn't because he was too in love with himself to love anyone else, like James liked to say. He'd never considered himself to be the golden child that his placement in Gryffindor had shown him to be. He believed very strongly that despite the mutual hatred between him and his family, he was a Black, through and through, was just as arrogant and disdainful and prideful as all the rest of them—was maybe the most Black of all. There was a reason he'd been their "brightest star" for ten years. He knew that all that really separated him from the rest of his family was an aversion to killing innocents and a lack of concern over blood status—a girl was a girl was a girl, and if he wanted to have sex with her, he would, blood and family be damned.

A creature ruled by his hormones, that was him.

But Marlene McKinnon never seemed to mind much. They'd shagged casually from fifth year until their graduation, neither being at all interested in monogamy or in love. After graduation, she'd moved abroad to the continent, but she returned a year later and joined the Order.

Things began again almost immediately, but were never quite the same as they had been in school.

Now, they were nineteen, heady with success, drunk on Muggle alcohol, sharing a pack of cigarettes and laughing too loudly in the corner at the Order's Christmas party. The older members shot them occasional looks of reprimand, but what did they care?

He was nineteen, bigheaded and boisterous and brave. She was nineteen, broken by the war she'd jumped into without thinking about first, as was her usual style, just the same way she'd done with him all these years. They snuck out sometime around midnight, he and James exchanging a discreet high-five behind Lily's back. He and Marlene continued their personal party at a shady Muggle bar, drinking more, smoking more, using Muggle drugs that he knew the others would disapprove of.

Strung out and very drunk, Marlene had run out of the bar, he was hot at her heels. She ran all the way across town, and he followed and felt a rush he hadn't known since his very first ride on his flying motorcycle. Somehow they ended up at his flat and fell in a literal sense into his bed (a box spring and mattress on the floor, he and James had tried to put a bed frame together when he'd first moved into his flat but they soon turned lazy and got drunk instead), all fumbling hands and heavy breathing. Rough and clumsy and a little bit painful, just the same but still so different than in school, a blur of color and noise, and in the morning she was still there, walking shameless and naked through his flat, makeup smudged on her mouth and her eyes, bruises on her neck and hips, smoking a cigarette and asking him where the bloody fucking milk was.

Things continued this way—she was scared and he was brave (but really he was even more afraid, but now he was afraid _of_ her, _for her_) and they fell into a vicious, wild pattern of drugs, alcohol, cigarettes and sex. No one was really surprised when they both started letting it affect them. Everyone knew that he was Blacker when James Potter wasn't around to stir up the sediment and that Marlene was a little bit broken. She made him absolutely miserable and he loved every moment of it, and he might have loved her. He thought nothing of it as more and more of her clothes and possessions found their way into his flat—it was just the inevitable result of whatever they were, and she slept more at his than at hers anyway. It was only logical, and he found that he didn't mind and may have even liked the idea.

…But she went home to her family for Christmas, and Peter that fucking _rat_ sold her out. He couldn't bring himself to go into the house when the Aurors got the call, and he skipped her funeral, too, and went to that shady Muggle bar where things had started this time around. He was just a coward, probably, but he told himself she'd have wanted it that way.

He remembers the couple of funerals they'd attended together, sitting awkwardly in the back, hoping no one would notice them cracking lewd jokes and laughing under their breaths. She was like him, uncomfortable with pain and grief, and they would skip out early and get inappropriately drunk for midday before going back to his apartment to load up on pills and powder. He'd known that the others were worried, didn't approve, but he'd decided that what they didn't know wouldn't hurt them, and neither he nor she really felt like it was anyone's business anyway, because _they_ understood each other, and what they were doing was okay with them. He wasn't her dad, he wasn't her brother, and he wasn't even really her friend. He was a body and she was damn good shag, and so what if her bruises weren't all from him?

It isn't until it's _her_ funeral that he's ducking out on to do all these things that Sirius realizes just how false a thrill it was for them both.

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Confession: there are possibly a few lines that I've ripped shamelessly from Lady Altair, because they were so utterly perfect that I couldn't find any better way to phrase it, and they were rattling around in my head the whole time I wrote this. I've always loved the characterization of Marlene as a tough little thing, but so hopelessly and tragically broken by the war... It makes her fit so well with the idea I've always had that Sirius is try-anything-once-never-say-never kind of guy who, try as he might, never quite escapes the darker sides of his home life.

Review if you'd like, it's always appreciated.


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